


study dates to actual dates

by harlequin87



Category: Rugby Union RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Getting Together, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-16
Updated: 2020-08-23
Packaged: 2021-03-05 01:13:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,526
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25486033
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/harlequin87/pseuds/harlequin87
Summary: He’s cute, though, once you get past the hair standing on end and the hands shaking with caffeine. Sam allows himself to stare at him subtly from the other side of the table after every successfully completed question, as a reward.Sam keeps meeting a cute, frazzled boy in the library. Can their relationship break out into - and survive in - the outside world?
Relationships: Tom Curry/Sam Underhill
Comments: 28
Kudos: 16





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The ‘only being able to write in present tense’ affliction continues...
> 
> This is more of a canon divergence AU than a university one, strictly speaking, but it was too complicated to explain in the tags.
> 
> Basically, Sam is canon-compliant (playing for Ospreys while going to uni in Cardiff from 2015) while Tom is a student. He’s also two years older than in reality so he’s in the same year as Sam.

Sam prides himself on his organisation and time management. That’s why he’s confident in his abilities to do a full-time economics degree while slowly establishing himself in the Ospreys first team. He’s nineteen years old, and he hadn’t even had to lie on his personal statement. He likes to think he knows which way is up, and he likes having the same vibe around him.

He’s in the library on a Friday night, a few weeks into the autumn term, putting the finishing touches to his first assignment. It’s nothing major, just a worksheet refreshing his A-level maths knowledge and adding a few more specific formulae, things like that. He’d done most of the work for it earlier in the week, but it’s due on Monday morning and he wants to get it out of the way so he can focus on the match on Saturday.

The only issue is the boy sitting across from him. He’s huffing and scratching his head and unzipping his bag and rustling papers and generally being a nuisance. Sam’s pretty sure he’s a fresher like him – the number of society-related pens confirms it as much as the frazzled air around him.

He’s cute, though, once you get past the hair standing on end and the hands shaking with caffeine. Sam allows himself to stare at him subtly from the other side of the table after every successfully completed question, as a reward. The back of his laptop is covered with stickers, and something sparks in his chest at the rainbow flag tucked under some band logos he’s never seen before.

He’s well-built, with a strong jawline, and he’d probably be a little taller than Sam, from what he can tell when they’re sat down. So what if he’s got a type? He can use it as motivation, and it won’t be weird because firstly, they’re students and nothing counts as weird, and secondly, he will most likely never see the guy again.

There’s about seven thousand students in their year, and Sam can recognise most of the others on his course (the ones who turn up to lectures, at least). The stressed guy in front of him is definitely not one of them. He hums, tapping his pen on the table. If he isn’t doing economics, what’s he doing in the economics library?

He realises with a start that the boy is frowning at him. He mouths _sorry_ and returns to his work. The other man might be making significantly more noise than him, but it looks like he needs as much peace as he can get.

Half an hour later, he’s finished his assignment and is packing away. It’s half past ten – if he walks quickly, he can be back in his room, showered, and in bed by eleven. In his haste, he accidentally stubs his toe on the table leg as he stands to leave. “Fuck,” he grunts, flushing at how loud it sounds in the near-silent library. There aren’t many people left, and the guy opposite definitely noticed.

“Sorry,” he mumbles, smiling apologetically at him.  
“Don’t worry about it,” the boy says, stretching his arms up behind his head – stop staring at his biceps, Sam – and yawning. “Happens to the best of us.”

Sam’s mouth is dry and he doesn’t know how to reply. “Good luck with that,” he says lamely, tilting his head at the computer screen.  
“Thanks,” the guy says, and then adds, as if the thought’s just occurred to him, “I’m Tom, by the way. I know it’s not Freshers’ Week anymore, but I like meeting new people.”  
“Sam,” Sam says in response. “Good to meet you.”

“Maybe I’ll see you around,” Tom says, then turns back to his laptop. Sam has a sudden urge to tell him that it’ll be okay, and they’re all figuring it out as they go along, but he doesn’t want to sound patronising.  
“Bye,” he whispers, and walks away.

He doesn’t see the mysterious Tom for another week, no matter how much he keeps his eyes peeled for tall, brown-haired guys with muscles even he could be jealous of. Then, he’s going into the Aberconway Library for his every-other-day evening study session and going to his usual seat, just by the big window overlooking the road, and he sees him.

Tom’s looking slightly less unhinged than the previous week, leafing through handouts and scribbling what seem to be single words on another sheet of paper. Still, if Sam ever looked that stressed, he’d hope somebody would ask if he was okay. He doesn’t like being that pressurised – hence why he’s at the library on a Friday night instead of Sunday. But, each to their own, he has to concede.

He puts in a steady hour of work, revising the seminar content of the week and making it into a neat stack of flashcards. The background noise of Tom’s sighs is surprisingly effective at keeping him focused, although he does start to worry about his blood pressure about fifty minutes in.

“I’m taking a quick break,” he whispers, leaning across the table and waving slightly to get Tom’s attention. “Want to come with? No offence, but you look like you need it.”  
Tom scrubs at his eyes. “Sure. Let’s go.”

They go and loiter in the entrance hall, by the water dispenser. Tom can’t stop shifting from foot to foot, and Sam lays a hand on his shoulder for a second to steady him. “What do you study?” he asks, hoping to distract him. “I haven’t seen you in any econ lectures.”

“Human geography,” Tom says, stopping twitching for a few seconds. “I just use this library because it’s closer to my room than Bute, you know? I’ve got an essay due at midnight and I’m going straight to bed afterwards.”

“Which halls are you in?” Sam sneaks a look at the clock on the wall behind them. It’s 10:45 – Tom should have time for a calming chat, and then be able to finish his assignment in plenty of time. “I’m in Aberconway, but I haven’t seen you around.”

Tom shakes his head. “I live in Colum. It’s a bit skanky, but we get by.”  
Sam grins. “Don’t you lot have to use our laundry because Colum’s so small?”  
“Don’t come for us like that,” Tom huffs, crossing his arms. “Quality, not quantity.”

“Speaking of which,” Sam says, pointing at the time, “you’ve got just over an hour of quality work time left before the deadline. Do you think you’ll be alright?”  
The way Tom’s eyes flare open suggests not, but he smiles gamely. “I work better under pressure,” he says.

Sam’s not convinced. “Well, I’m probably going to do another half an hour of work, so we can try and motivate each other, if you want?”  
“That would be great, thanks,” Tom says, sticking his hand under the water dispenser and rubbing water over his head. He shakes his head like a dog, then straightens. “Let’s get this done, partner.” His bravado is only slightly spoiled by a yawn swallowing the last word.

Their pact seems to help Tom stay on track, and he’s looking less frayed around the edges by the time Sam decides to leave. He’s submitted his work, gone over the flashcards a few times, and even updated his budgeting spreadsheet by the time 11:15 rolls around. “You good?” he whispers, leaning forward to gather up his pens and highlighters.

Tom flashes him a thumbs up. “Only two paragraphs left. Thanks, mate.”  
“No problem,” Sam says, slotting his folder into his rucksack. “See you next week?”  
“You bet,” Tom grins, and something in Sam’s neatly ordered heart pulls loose.  
“Looking forward to it,” he murmurs, patting Tom on the shoulder as he leaves.

He doesn’t strictly _need_ to go to the library on the next Friday, but the memory of Tom’s enthusiasm at seeing him draws him back. It’s been a bit of a shitty week all round, a couple of injuries to the other forwards during training meaning that the squad’s depleted for the opening Champions Cup game on Saturday. Nonetheless, he’s been named on the bench, even when he thought he’d worked hard enough for a starting position. He channels the frustration into his academic work, and he’s basically finished before he even leaves for the library.

“Evening,” Tom says when Sam sinks into the chair opposite. He looks like he’s been there for a while, detritus built up already and used tissues spilling out of his bag.  
“How’s it going?” Sam asks, pulling out his laptop.  
Tom sniffs, wipes his nose and lets the tissue drop onto the growing pile. “Could be better,” he says, head drooping forward for a second before he snaps upright again.

“Got a cold?” Sam says sympathetically. Tom nods, looking sorry for himself. “I’ve got some paracetamol in my bag if you want.”  
Tom nods again, but gestures at his messy desk. “Thanks, but I’ve got some – somewhere.”  
“Do you want to try for half an hour, then a break?” he asks, mindful of his light workload and Tom’s flushed cheeks.

He agrees readily, and Sam starts working through his emails, sorting out some admin stuff and generally keeping himself busy. He knows he could – should be in bed by now, what with the game tomorrow, but Tom’s pathetic state is keeping him anchored to his seat.

His phone buzzes after half an hour, and he jerks his head towards the lobby. _Break time_ , he mouths to Tom, and they get up and go. Tom staggers a little at first, Sam notices with concern, but he covers it well.

Tom collapses onto the sofa in the entrance area while Sam leans against the wall next to him. “You sure you’re okay, mate?” he asks, fiddling with the lid of his water bottle. “You look rough.”  
“Thanks,” Tom says, throat sounding uncomfortably clogged. “Nothing I can do about it, though. I tried to take the day off yesterday to get over it, but it didn’t help and now I haven’t even finished my research and the presentation’s due in two hours, _fuck_.”

Sam winces. “Have you emailed the professor? They’ll probably give you an extension, and you’ll only feel worse if you keep trying to work.”  
Tom shrugs. “It might be worth a try…”

Sam drops down beside him, rubs at his arm comfortingly. “Look, mate, it can only help. And – I know it might be weird, and we haven’t known each other that long, but – do you want to come round to my flat for a bit? It’s warmer than in here, and closer than your place. We can still work, just in a more illness-friendly way.”

Tom sags into the touch. “Are you sure?” he asks weakly. “I don’t want to get in the way.”  
“No, honestly, it’s fine,” Sam says. “I could do more useful stuff at home than here, anyway.”  
“Okay,” Tom says, letting his eyes slide shut for a moment. “I’ll email her, then we can pack up and go.”

Sam only has to shut down his laptop and put it and the charging cable back in his bag, so he’s left hovering awkwardly around Tom as he snuffles his way through tidying up and binning all the used tissues. “I’m just over the road,” he says quietly, touching Tom’s elbow to keep him in a straight line. “Ground floor, and my flatmates are all going out – well, about now.”

He shepherds Tom across the road, then swipes them in. He hopes the rest of the flat has already left, but the noise forcing its way through the door as he unlocks it tells him otherwise. “My room’s second on the left,” he tells Tom, pressing the key into his hand. “Make yourself at home – I just need to talk to this lot.”

Once he’s sure Tom’s found the right room, he ducks his head into the kitchen. “Guys,” he calls over the music, “are you going out soon?” There’s a shouted conversation between his flatmates, and the consensus seems to be in about ten minutes. “Okay, okay,” he murmurs to himself, then raises his voice again. “I’m trying to have an early night, so if you could turn it down a bit until then, I’d really appreciate it.”

Luckily, they’re still in that first month of knowing each other when not acquiescing to reasonable requests seems overly hostile. One of the girls switches off the speaker, leaving only their tipsy yells. He thanks them and heads out to his room.

Tom’s standing in the middle of the room when Sam goes in, swaying slightly. “You can take the desk,” he says gently, pushing Tom towards it. “I need to pack some stuff for tomorrow. I’ve got a game,” he adds, when Tom looks at him blearily. “Rugby. It’s at home though, so not much travel.”

“Rugby, huh,” Tom yawns, resting his head on his rucksack. “Explains the muscles.” It’s not flirting, Sam tells himself. He’s just overtired and his filters have probably vanished. Anyway, he does have muscles, he can’t deny it.

“Do you play?” he asks, unable to come up with a reply that doesn’t involve Tom’s own athletic appearance.  
Tom shakes his head. He pushes himself upright, tugging a few sheets and a pen out of his rucksack, and Sam jolts back into action. They’re here to do work, not chat.

“I did for a few years,” Tom offers, after a few minutes of silence. “But my twin was always better at football, so there wasn’t really time for us both on Sundays. He had a trial with Man United as well, but it didn’t work out.”

Sam pauses in his preparations. “Is he here too?” It’s friendly, not weird, and he’s grateful for the slamming of doors that heralds the departure of his flatmates.  
“Who, Ben?” Tom says, poking at his phone screen. “Nah. We decided eighteen years together was long enough, so he’s at UCL doing physics.”

Sam’s opened his mouth to reply when Tom lets out a quiet whoop. “What’s up?”  
“My professor’s extended the deadline,” he says with a grin. “ _I understand that first term can be a struggle at times and I am happy to give you until Monday evening to complete the task._ What a legend, honestly.”

“That’s great,” Sam says. Some of the tension has lifted from Tom’s shoulders, although there’s a twinge of sadness in his own chest. “You going to go to bed then, or do you want to stay here for a bit longer? It’s fine either way.”

“I might kick around here for – twenty minutes? I need to get something done tonight, and it’s more likely to happen with you than in my room.” He looks uncertain for a second, and Sam instantly hates it.

“God, no, it’s fine,” he reassures him. “Company’s always good. Cup of tea?” he offers, having finished packing his kit. He can’t just sit and watch Tom work, especially not on his territory. Thankfully, Tom accepts, and Sam takes the out.

While he’s in the kitchen, having dumped all the shot glasses in the sink, put the empty bottles in the recycling, and wiped the sticky mess off the table, he leans against the cupboards and lets himself think. The hiss of the kettle provides a useful background noise, although the bright white light is a bit more piercing than he’d usually like at this time of night.

He likes order. He likes knowing where he’s going to be when, and what he’s going to be doing there. He’s never been the one for spontaneous trips. So why has he got a random guy in his room, who he’s only spoken to twice?

He doesn’t really do hook-ups either – not part of the _Sam Underhill, student and rugby player_ life plan – and this can’t be explained away as a study date, or arrangement, or whatever. There’s a guy, in his room, at half ten the night before a game. Aforementioned guy has probably brought all his germs with him too. Genuinely, what was he thinking? What kind of magic does Tom know that’s made him throw away all his principles like this?

The kettle clicks off, and he distracts himself by making the tea. The careful, practised patterns of the ritual calm his scattered thoughts. The facts of the matter are: there is a guy in his room. He doesn’t mind there being a guy in his room. If he’s being honest, he quite likes it. Somehow, it’s not a problem.

Obviously, Tom needs to leave sooner rather than later so Sam can get a proper night’s sleep, but for now, it’s fine.

Tom accepts the steaming tea with a smile, switching his attention back to the screen. There’s about half a page of notes, from what Sam can see, and he’s flicking between a few tabs and jotting things down. He’s happy to see Tom back in the groove. He wants to help, not disrupt.

He sips at his tea on the bed, scrolling through his messages as he waits for it to cool. Half the flat seem to have lost the other half in the club, while the Ospreys guys stopped messaging a while ago. It’s because they’re proper adults and professionals, and definitely not students staying up late to help their acquaintances – friends? – research a presentation.

A comfortable fifteen minutes passes, and Sam’s starting to feel sleepy. He’s gone through all of his apps twice, browsed the notes for the match, and finished his tea. “You okay there?” Tom asks, amused, and he pushes himself upright.

“Yeah, just a little tired,” he says, fighting back a yawn.  
Tom smiles. “I’m sorry for keeping you up, then, but I really appreciate it.” His stuff is nearly all packed away, Sam realises belatedly. Perhaps he had fallen asleep.  
“Not a problem,” he says, covering his mouth as the yawn surfaces. “Glad to help.”

“Hey – good luck for the match, yeah?” Tom says, standing by the door with his rucksack on. Sam blinks. He’s definitely hovering on the boundary of consciousness, if he’s losing time like this.  
“Thanks,” he murmurs, and forces himself to his feet. Good hosts show their guests out, after all.

“Which team is it?” Tom asks companionably as they make their way down to the front door of the building. “With shoulders like that, I’d say first, but I don’t want to assume.”  
“Yeah,” Sam yawns again, swiping his pass to open the door.  
“I’ll look up the score afterwards, then,” Tom says, bumping against Sam lightly and walking outside. “Thanks again, mate.”

“No problem,” Sam repeats. He watches Tom wander away, lit up orange by the streetlights, and smiles to himself. He may be on the bench, but he definitely wants to put on a show for his new friend.

He’d like to think he presents himself pretty well, for his senior team debut. Even with both sides weakened by the internationals away at the World Cup, Ulster are ferocious and Sam makes a few last-ditch tackles to close out the game. His coach claps him on the back afterwards with a grin, the boys make him buy a round, and he gets back to Cardiff in the late evening.

He sleeps through most of the next morning, his legs stiff and aching when he finally wakes up at eleven. He rolls over to get his phone and scans through the messages. A few mates from Gloucester have sent him well done messages that hadn’t come through the night before, and there’s a few Facebook notifications too.

He opens the app. _Friend request from Tom Curry_ blinks back at him, and he accepts with a grin. Maybe he caught the game somehow, and wants to congratulate him on that particularly dramatic tackle on Gilroy.

The message pops up. _Congrats on beating Durham!!!_ Tom has written. Sam frowns. He never said anything about – _oh. Right._

He didn’t specify the team, because it gets a bit awkward sometimes to mention the whole professional athlete thing, he’s learned, and people tend to start acting weird around him when they realise he’s already earning way more than their shitty student loans.

He hadn’t specified the team, and now Tom thinks he plays for the university BUCS side. There’s worse teams around, he knows, but still. None of the guys on that team have shoulders to match him, surely. And he’s actually in a situation where he might want to flex his ability, for once, but he’s messed it up by letting Tom make assumptions.

Sam whacks himself in the face, not too lightly. What’s he meant to reply to Tom? _Um, thanks for texting but I was playing in a different match sixty miles away, lol._ Yeah, that would go down well.

After a few more minutes’ angst, he sends back a simple _Thanks :) hope you’re feeling better now._ Tom doesn’t reply, so Sam drags himself out of bed and into the kitchen to make a sandwich. He has nothing else to do for the rest of the day, and only two contact hours on Monday. He can afford to be lazy.

They text on and off for the next few days, until Friday. _See you tonight?_ Tom asks, and Sam immediately replies with a _you bet!!!_ He spends his entire seminar chewing on a pen, staring out the window and regretting his enthusiasm. It’s a Sunday match this week and he’s on the bench again, but his sister Rachel’s visiting tomorrow so he has no excuses not to work tonight.

Tom had seemed more on top of his work over text, but he looks just as stressed as always when Sam sits down in his usual seat opposite. “Alright?” he whispers. There are fewer tissues littered over the desk so that’s no longer an issue, at least. Tom pulls a face in response, fingers still flashing over the keys.

Sam sets a mental timer for an hour – they could probably both do with a longer stint to start with. He’s got some unpleasant maths to dig into, and he can just tell that it’s going to take longer than the hours allotted in the library.

An hour later, he gets to his feet. “Break time,” he murmurs to Tom, clapping his hands softly to catch his attention. “Come on, let’s go.” Tom keeps typing for another minute, but then reluctantly stands and follows him out.

“How’s it going?” he asks. It’s less essential, this time than before – he knows what Tom’s been doing because they’ve been messaging every few hours. It doesn’t stop him wanting to know, though.

“I thought it was going okay,” Tom says, somehow breathless, “because I really like this topic, but I had so many interesting and _actually useful_ articles to read that I only started answering the question ten minutes ago.”

“What’s it on?” Sam asks, leaning against the wall and resting his head on his arm.  
“’ _Border Spaces: Identities, Cultures and Politics in a Globalising World’_ ,” Tom recites. “It’s all about formation of identity in different regions, especially ones which are more contested like war zones and newly-created countries, or other areas where the political situation is more unstable. It’s kind of like the end of the Cold War for Eastern Europe, things like that.” He trails off, the fire in his eyes dimming. “Sorry – I didn’t mean to go off on one.”

“Hey, no,” Sam protests, kicking at his ankle. “It sounds cool. Better than mine, anyway.” He rolls his eyes, anticipating the question. “Contemporary economic issues in the Eurozone. Yeah, I know.”  
Tom snorts, then pokes at Sam’s bicep. “That looks painful. Is it from training, or…?”

Sam looks at his arm, confused. There’s a fading bruise, probably from the Ulster match. He’s had worse, but it would never do to turn down the pity of a friend. “The game last week. I think one of the opposition trod on me, something like that. Although, they’re Irish, so I don’t know what I should have expected.”

“Irish?” Tom asks, his turn to be bemused. “I thought you played Durham.”  
_Shit._ Sam chooses to take the dishonourable route of least resistance. “Well, yeah, but I’m pretty sure it was one of their centres – they were both Irish, that’s all.”  
Tom shrugs, apparently willing to take the explanation. “Must hurt like a bitch, though.”

Sam grins. He knows just how to impress Tom now. “You want to see something worse?” he asks, already pulling up his shirt. Tom’s eyes widen. It’s been a few days, but it must still look awful to someone seeing it for the first time.

“You – what the hell,” Tom breathes, reaching out a hand like he wants to touch the bruises. It’s a neat set of ten stud marks, each with a scrape extending out like a comet’s trail. They’re fading to purple now, green around the edges and with some blue flecks.

“We were doing a drill – three days ago, I think – and Nicky tripped over me, tried to save himself, and his boot dragged over my stomach on the way down.” He pats the constellation of bruises, then drops the shirt and flushes as he realises that he’s basically just shown his abs to Tom in the middle of the library lobby.

“Wow,” Tom says, mouth still hanging open. “That’s intense. Shouldn’t you get hazard pay for something like that?”  
Sam coughs. “It’s all part of the game. I’ve just been unlucky the last few weeks, that’s all.”

The conversation stalls, and Tom suggests that they go back and keep working for another hour. It’ll be cutting it fine with when the library closes, but Tom looks like he needs it so Sam readily agrees.

One hour later, he’s ready to leave the library and abandon the stupid questions to their fate. If the cleaner wants to recycle them, then he’d be perfectly happy to let them have the worksheets. He finished the first three, but the next couple are eluding him.

On the other side of the desk, Tom seems much happier. “All done!” he whispers triumphantly at five to midnight. “If this doesn’t get a first, I don’t know what will.”  
“Nice one,” Sam says, resisting the urge to screw up the bloody econ questions and throw them in the bin.

They walk out together, Sam only more frustrated by Tom’s incessant bouncing next to him. “No game tomorrow, I guess,” Tom says, holding the door for him.  
“Thanks,” he mumbles. “No, it’s on Sunday. We have to travel this time, though, so we’re heading up tomorrow evening.”

“Where to?” Tom asks. “Hang on, I know this.” He bites his lip, bobbing his head like that’s going to help anything. “Northumbria, right?”  
It’s Edinburgh, actually, but Sam doesn’t have the energy to correct him. “Yeah. They decided to splash out as well, so we’re flying instead of taking the coach.”

“Wow. They’re really spending the big bucks on you guys.”  
_You don’t know the half of it_ , Sam thinks. He’s going to have to come clean at some point, but not right now, at midnight outside the economics library. “See you next week?” he offers instead.  
“Of course,” Tom says, enthusiasm undimmed. “Good luck for Sunday – I’ll see if I can find a stream or something.”

“Bye, mate,” Sam says and starts walking back to his halls. It’s the opposite way from Tom’s room in Colum, but for once he’s glad of it.  
“Don’t let anybody tread on you!” Tom yells from across the road, and he gives him a thumbs up. It’s a strange thing to think about someone technically his own age, but Tom’s a sweet kid. Sam likes him.

He doesn’t let anybody tread on him, and the match (or the ten minutes he plays at the end) leaves him with more aches than obvious bruises. He’s disappointed about that, and he doesn’t really want to examine the reasons why. The bruises across his abs are basically gone, with only the little raised lines of the scratches remaining. It’s definitely not worth showing Tom.

In the first break of their study session that Friday, they’re having a perfectly normal chat about their plans for the Christmas holiday when Tom asks, apropos of nothing, “Do you want to go to the Cardiff game against Ospreys next week?”

Sam’s stomach drops. Tom’s expecting him to say yes, he can see it on his face, but there’s no way he can. He’s supposed to be _playing_ in that match, for God’s sake. He had been looking forward to it, only having to drive five miles to the stadium instead of sixty, but now… _Fucking hell._

“It doesn’t clash with the BUCS match, I checked,” Tom says earnestly, as if that’s the sticking point here. “Me and a few of my brother were going to go, and I know rugby’s kind of your thing, so I thought it might be nice?”

Sam hates the uncertainty on his face, and knowing he’s the reason for it. “I’d love to,” he says hesitantly. “The issue is-”  
“You’re already busy?” Tom says, drooping like a neglected houseplant. “That’s okay.”

He should take the out. He’s being handed the opportunity on a silver platter. He can’t do it, though. It’s been nearly two months, and he can’t keep lying to Tom by omission.

“No, uh,” he stutters, “I’m already going. Like, I’m probably going to be playing.”  
Tom frowns as he tries to parse the words tumbling out of Sam’s mouth. “You mean like a mascot thing?”

Sam bites his lip. “No. I mean, I play for Ospreys. They haven’t named the team yet, but it’s probably going to be my first start.”  
Tom’s jaw drops. “I thought – you said you played for the first team!”

Sam winces. He can’t tell where Tom’s going to end up on the emotional rollercoaster ride his face is currently going on, so he has to get in there fast. “I didn’t say which one, though. Look, I didn’t mean to lie, I promise, you just assumed, and some people have been a bit iffy about it. I really like you and I didn’t want that to happen.” He makes eye contact with Tom. “I was going to tell you, honestly. I just didn’t know how to say it.”

“Holy shit,” Tom says, covering his face with his hands. “I need a minute.” Sam waits, worrying at his lower lip. Hopefully this isn’t too big of a dealbreaker for their friendship or anything else. He doesn’t really have many friends at uni, pathetic as it sounds, and Tom’s up there for him.

“Okay, I have questions,” Tom says finally, sitting down. It’s weird that they’re still in the library entrance hall, given the revelation that’s just taken place.  
“Fire away,” Sam says, taking the other chair.

“So, you play for the Ospreys. Like, how?”  
Sam smiles, still a bit shaky. “Well, I drive to Swansea on a Tuesday morning-”  
“No, you dick,” Tom laughs. “How did you get into this whole situation?” He gestures around them as if to encompass the city, the lifestyle, the degree.

“I was in the Gloucester academy for a few years,” he says. He can do this bit – media training has always come naturally to him. “It was fine – I played a couple of games for them – but I wanted to go to uni as well. I signed with Bridgend in July, they moved me up to the Ospreys, and now we’re here.”

“Are you not, like, really busy?” Tom asks, wrinkling his nose. “I can barely do all my work without a full-time job as well.”  
“I’ve noticed,” Sam says with a smirk, and Tom swats at his knee. It’s then that he knows they’re going to be okay. “No, I just have to be organised, that’s all. You’ve seen me working.”

Tom leans back, thunks his head against the wall. “Wow,” he says again. “That does explain why you’re so stacked, though. They must pay big money for those muscles, right?”  
“I’m not a stripper,” Sam says, cheeks colouring. “But yeah, they pay me well enough.”

“Fancy being my sugar daddy?” Tom asks casually, and Sam chokes on air. “No, I’m kidding,” he says quickly. Sam can’t help a panicked laugh. “Unless…?” Tom says, arching an eyebrow.  
“How about we go and do some more work?” he says, flustered. “I don’t think my piddling little contract would do much for you.”

“Not saying that’s the only attraction,” Tom sing-songs back, muffling his laughter as they re-enter the library. Sam buries his head in his work and tries to calm down.

 _Bloody hell_ , he thinks. That conversation had gone from zero to sixty in about ten seconds, and suddenly Tom had come over all flirty as well, to top it off. He scratches out a line of working and sighs. It’s good to have his secret out there, and to maybe have Tom be interested in him, but it’s all a bit much for one evening.

He still hasn’t managed to regain his composure and get back in the groove when Tom decides to call it a night. “I’ll find a way to watch your match tomorrow,” he murmurs as they make their way out of the library. He doesn’t need to keep his voice down – they’re practically the only ones left – but Sam finds he likes the intimacy of it. “Your actual one, not the BUCS one.”

“Sorry about that,” he says, rubbing at the back of his neck. He’s got a feeling that Tom’s going to be reminding him of it for a long time to come. “It’s on BT, I’m pretty sure. I can send you my login if you want.”

“Ah, I’ve already got it,” Tom says. “Might have to cancel it and freeload off my _professional athlete_ friend, though.”  
Sam has no regrets about elbowing him in the ribs. “Alright, alright. I can’t do anything about next weekend, but I can see if I can get you tickets for a home game next term.”

“You’re too kind,” Tom says, fluttering his eyelashes. Sam scowls, but it’s for show and they both know it.  
“Eh, whatever,” he says gruffly as they split apart. “See you next week.”

“Rest up!” Tom trills. “Wouldn’t want you getting hurt in your _professional rugby match_ , would we?” Sam waves him off with a snort. All in all, the evening has gone quite well.

When he checks his phone after the match, he has a play-by-play commentary waiting for him in his chat with Tom. _All for you_ , he writes back with a kissy face emoji. Two can play at this game, and he does have the competitive spirit of a professional athlete.

Tom has to skip their study date on Friday because his brother’s visiting for the weekend, so Sam permits himself an early night. Of course, that culminates in him tossing and turning for hours, tied up in knots by nerves. He’s not scared for himself, but he doesn’t want to get injured and have to cope with the guilt of knowing he’s made Tom worry.

There’s the added complication of meeting Tom’s twin, too. It’s a bit too close to meeting the family, especially in this strange pseudo-courtship they’ve found themselves in.

He drives to the stadium, anxiety still twisting in his gut. It’s partly the break from his usual routine that’s causing the stress, he knows – the rest of the boys travelled together on the team bus as usual, while he’s coming in separately. Being reunited with them in the visitors’ dressing room doesn’t calm his nerves much, though.

Cardiff Arms Park is technically smaller than the Ospreys home ground, but he’s so much more intimidated. He goes through his usual stretches, chats with the other players between drills, and generally settles into the atmosphere. There’s still a prickling sensation on the back of his neck, though.

It’s only jogging back to the tunnel after warmups that he realises what it is. There’s a gaggle of fans hanging around the mouth of the tunnel, waving programmes and scarves to be signed, all cheering and shouting. There’s one voice that cuts through the rest, and he focuses in on it-

“Sign my shirt, Sam!” Tom warbles. “You’re my favourite player, please!” Rolling his eyes, Sam jumps over the barrier and walks over to him. “Sammy, I love you!” Tom continues in the same grating falsetto, grinning broadly.

“Hello, Thomas,” he says, raising his eyebrows. “It’s nice to see you too.”  
“Sign my programme,” Tom says in response, thrusting it at him with a pen. “I’m going to keep it and then sell it on eBay when you’re famous.”

“That’s nice,” Sam murmurs, scribbling on the programme. He straightens up and hands it back. “Here you go.”  
Tom takes one look at the words and cracks up, giggling helplessly. “ _To my number one fan_? Mate, I’m your only fan. Although, _couldn’t do it without you_ , I do agree with. Here, Ben, look.”

He shows the cover of the programme to the man standing next to him, and Sam suddenly realises who he is. If Tom addressing him by his name wasn’t enough of a clue – the two men in front of him are identical in almost every way.

“Nice to meet you, Ben,” he says, extending his hand over the low concrete wall separating them.  
“Same to you.” Ben shakes his hand, smiling slightly. “Good luck out there.”

Then one of his teammates is calling to him, gesturing towards the tunnel, and he has to leave. “Good luck, Sam,” Tom yells after him. “We’re rooting for you! Do it for your number one fan!”

His first match in his university city has the strange feeling of his worlds colliding. His parents had offered to come down for the game, for his first professional start, but he’d said no – that would have been too much to handle. As it is, he plays with the knowledge that Tom’s watching him from a matter of metres away.

Maybe he needs to start bringing Tom to all his matches, because he’s on fire. He makes five turnovers in the first half alone, and the Cardiff defence coach definitely marked him out as a target during the break because he’s smashed from all sides in the second half. He’s a ship caught in a storm, Tom’s gaze the only thing able to anchor him.

They scrape out a win, and Sam hears the twins cheering again as the players make their way back to the changing rooms. He’s done well – he can afford a few minutes with his friends.

“Jesus Christ, Sam,” Tom says as he hops over the wall dividing them. “That was insane!”  
“Welcome to the big leagues,” he says tiredly, steadying himself on the seating behind them.  
“Pretty cool, mate,” Ben adds. “That tackle on Evans in the seventieth minute was great.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Sam says, cracking his neck. “I honestly don’t remember most of it.”  
“Good thing I was texting you, then,” Tom says brightly, waving his phone at him.

“We do have video review for that,” he starts to say, but he’s cut off by Tom gathering him into a tight hug. It’s the most contact they’ve ever had, and even the post-match adrenaline can’t stop the groan he lets out.

“Oh, sorry,” Tom says, starts to pull back. “Should’ve thought.”  
“It’s not that,” Sam grunts and tightens his arm around Tom’s waist. He’s very conscious of Tom’s brother watching them, but then he’s also hyped up after a win. Who can blame him if his subconscious wants override his rational brain for a few seconds?

He squeezes tighter for a delicious, extended moment, then lets Tom go. He’s probably sweaty and definitely muddy, and Tom might appreciate it if he were to have a shower. He has the debrief to sit through, anyway.

“Will we see you after?” Tom asks, cheeks flushed from the cold and eyes sparkling.  
Sam scratches his head. “Depends how long you’re sticking around for. We’ve got about an hour of stuff to do now, but I can text you once I’m back in halls?”

“Sounds good,” Tom says, reaching out and squeezing his shoulder. “We’ll see you there.” Sam nods, covering Tom’s hand with his own, and then drags himself away. A warm shower is looking to be an ever more inviting prospect as the adrenaline seeps away.

It’s 7:15 by the time he gets back to his room, and he allows himself five minutes to flop on his bed before he texts Tom. The coaches gave him a special mention in the post-match talk; he deserves it.

 _Back now_ , he sends eventually. He doesn’t have the energy for much more. _Come to Colum?_ Tom replies. _We have food!!! Flat 14 (third floor sorry but there’s a lift if you want)_ Sam’s already reaching for his coat. He can never deny Tom anything, and he thinks the other man knows that.

Tom buzzes him in, and he makes his way up the stairs slowly. Hopefully it’s just Tom and Ben there, although the _we_ in the message could be any number of people. Now they’ve breached the barrier of only meeting within five hundred metres of the library, though, he feels he can be a bit more selfish with Tom.

 _I’m outside_ , he sends when he locates the right door. _Two secs, Ben’s coming_ , Tom writes back, and sure enough his twin opens the door. “Evening,” Sam says awkwardly.  
“Evening,” Ben parrots back.  
They stand there in silence before Tom yells from inside, “Come in! You’re both as bad as each other.”  
Ben lets out a huff of laughter. “That’s Tom, isn’t it.” Sam can only agree.

Ben leads him through to the kitchen, where Tom’s stirring something in a large pot. He looks up as they come in and his face breaks into a smile. “I didn’t know if they were feeding you or not, so…”  
Sam shrugs. “I can always eat more. Smells good, too.”

Tom’s face brightens even more. “It’s chilli con carne – you said you liked it once, so I thought it was a safe bet.” Sam doesn’t remember that conversation at all, but he nods gamely and takes a seat. Ben takes some cans of beer out of the fridge and deposits them on the table. “ _Arrange them_ ,” Tom hisses. “This is meant to be nice.”

“Hey, this is already so much more than I was expecting,” Sam says hurriedly, taking a can before Ben starts positioning them. “Don’t worry about it.”  
“What did you do before?” Tom asks, corners of his mouth downturned.  
“Drive back from Swansea, have a snack, go to bed? I’m used to it, honestly.”

Tom doesn’t look satisfied by the explanation, but he’s soon distracted by plating up the food. Sam seizes the opportunity to talk to Ben a bit more. “Tom mentioned that you’re at UCL,” he says, picking at a dent in the edge of the table. “What’s living in London like? Cardiff must feel quite small by comparison.”

It’s a nice evening, all things considered, although Sam can feel his body stiffening up even as the alcohol loosens his mental inhibitions. After the food, they go and play some FIFA (badly) on the PlayStation in Tom’s room. Ben takes the desk chair as the guest, while Sam and Tom are squished together on the bed.

(It’s big enough for the two of them to sit on at the same time with plenty of room to spare, and they both know it. That doesn’t stop them staying pressed together, and neither do Ben’s increasingly despairing eye rolls and sighs.)

Tom takes it upon himself to walk Sam back to Aberconway, despite his protestations. “I can look after myself,” he says, gesturing at himself. “Honestly, it’s fine.”  
Tom isn’t taking no for an answer. “And I want to come with you,” he says stubbornly. “I know you’re capable – I mean, look at you! – but I’d like a walk.”

They both choose to ignore Ben’s groan, and Sam says goodbye to him as he bundles himself up in his coat, scarf, and gloves for the short walk home. It’s almost December, and Cardiff in the middle of the night has never been the warmest of places.

“Thanks for tonight,” Tom says softly as they wait to cross the road. “I really enjoyed it, and Ben’s finally going to shut up about meeting you.”  
Sam looks at him, face half-lit by the streetlights. “Why did he want to meet me that much?” He could take a guess, but he also wants to hear Tom say it.

“I talk about you a lot,” Tom says, shoving his hands deeper into his pockets. “That’s all.”  
“What, as your study buddy?” Sam asks, intrigued now.  
Tom sighs, frozen breath hanging in the air between them. “Kind of,” he says. “It’s just, you’re – oh, the lights have changed. Let’s go.”

Sam groans internally as they make their way to the other side of the road. He needs to know now, and the strange otherworldliness of Colum Road at midnight seems like his best chance. He glances over at Tom, who is studiously looking at the pavement. Maybe he should take the leap this time.

“Hey, so,” he starts, staring straight ahead, before his voice cracks and he has to clear his throat. “I was wondering if – if you’d maybe like to meet up at some point next weekend? I have a home game on Friday night, but I’d be free the rest of the weekend if you’d be up for it.”

His hands are clenched into fists in his jacket pockets, and they’re coming closer and closer to the main doors of his building. _Come on, Tom, please. I’m going out on a limb here._

Tom hums, and Sam’s heart jumps. “I don’t know… I’ll see if I can fit you in around my intense study schedule.”  
Sam isn’t proud of the way his voice quivers. “So – that’s a yes?”

“Hey, why not?” Tom says, coming to a halt outside the front door. There’s a tiny smile on his face. “What were you thinking?”  
Sam grins in relief. “I’ve been to the park just by here a few times and it has a café and stuff, if that’s not too boring for you.”  
Tom shakes his head fondly. “Our relationship is almost entirely based on studying in the library, mate. The park sounds great.”

On impulse, Sam leans in for a hug. “Awesome. Meet here at three next Sunday?”  
“Sure,” Tom says, breath warm where it hits Sam’s ear. “I’m looking forward to it.”

Sam pulls back, already missing the solid weight of Tom’s arms around him. He’s getting spoiled, he thinks – two hugs in one day is more than he’s had since moving to Cardiff. “See you then,” he murmurs, no longer bothering to hide his soft smile.

“Missing you already!” Tom tosses over his shoulder as he walks away. The cockiness from earlier is gone, softened into something a little more genuine.  
“You too,” Sam says quietly, letting himself into the building. The weirdest part is – it’s true.

The next week is hectic, to say the least. He doesn’t have any assignments due, but his economic history professor decides to tell them about their formative (thank God) assessment that’s happening in the last week of term on the Thursday. The stress levels in the lecture hall double in about a second, and Sam’s no different.

He knows he’s prepared – by his standards, and certainly by anyone else’s – but really? The last week before Christmas is meant be for relaxing, surely, not cramming for a test. If he’s lucky, he might be able to wiggle his way out of the video review session that week, or at least do it over Skype instead of having to drive all the way to Swansea and back. The team have been understanding so far: hopefully they’ll continue to be.

By the time Sunday rolls around, he’s a bit tighter, closed up, than he would usually be. He’s well on track with his revision, but it’s the fact of having the mock hanging over his head like some shitty sword of Damocles that’s kept him up at night with his notes. It’s only a formative, and he’s doing _fine_ , but it’s not ideal.

Tom picks up on it immediately. “What’s up?” he asks, prodding at Sam’s cheek as they walk towards Bute Park. “You played great on Friday, and I know nobody trod on you.”  
Sam forces a smile at their inside joke. “No, it’s not that – well, not really.” It’s just embarrassing, having to admit to being this riled up over a test which doesn’t actually mean anything, especially when he’s supposed to be the organised one here, with his full-time job and full-time degree. It even sounds ridiculous in his head.

“Well, what is it?” Tom asks. “You don’t have to tell me, but it might help.”  
Sam bites down on his lip, hard. “It’s stupid, really, but…” Tom lets him whine all the way round the lake, doesn’t judge when he has to swipe at his stinging eyes to stop the wind freezing the tears and making this whole situation ten times worse.

“It sounds like you’re doing your best,” Tom says diplomatically as they reach the first bridge over the lake.  
Sam stares into the icy water. “What if that’s not enough? Like, I don’t want to sound like an arse, but I’ve never struggled with something like this before. I decide I want to do something, achieve something, and then I do.”

He watches as reflection-Tom rests his head on reflection-Sam’s shoulder. “For what it’s worth,” Tom says, “I’m amazed you’re only having this issue now. I can barely keep up with my work on a good week, let alone do what you’re doing.”  
He shrugs, careful not to jostle Tom too much. “Thanks. I guess it’s just a learning experience. Anyway – do you want to go to the café? I’m getting a bit cold here.”

They move off together, Tom bumping up against Sam’s side every so often. The little café is through an archway in an old brick wall, tables and chairs folded up against it while the patrons sit inside in the warm. Sam goes inside first and makes sure he gets to the till ahead of Tom. He’s a rugby player – he knows how to use his body, sue him.

When Tom’s finished poring over the menu, eventually settling on a hot chocolate and a brownie – “What? I like chocolate!” he says in response to Sam’s raised eyebrows – Sam makes sure to inform the amused-looking woman behind the counter in no uncertain terms that he’s paying for both orders. Tom shoves at his side for a second before giving up and retreating to a table by the window.

Again, Sam’s a rugby player – Tom was never going to win that one, no matter how much aesthetic muscle he’s got.

“Here you go,” Sam says, sliding the tray onto the table. The flower arrangement and salt and pepper pots make it difficult to fit everything on, but he just about manages it.  
“Thanks,” Tom says. His smile is genuine at first, then shifts into something sleazier. “Glad to see the sugar daddy’s coming through again.”

Sam groans, pulling his pot of tea towards him. “You don’t need a sugar daddy, the amount of sugar in that drink.”  
Tom winks, keeping up the pretence. “Doesn’t mean I don’t want one, babe.”

Sam knows he’s going red. Tom’s words alone would be bad enough, but he can see the elderly couple on the table behind Tom’s back giving them disapproving stares. “Look, we can negotiate somewhere else, alright? Just don’t traumatise the OAPs.” He tilts his head at the couple, and Tom has the grace to look embarrassed for half a second.

Sam busies himself with the tea, stirring in the milk and willing his cheeks to cool. Damn him being so pale, honestly. When he sneaks a look at Tom, he’s chewing absentmindedly on the brownie and staring out the window.

“You like it?” Sam asks. He blows on the surface of the tea before taking a sip.  
“It’s lovely, Sam,” Tom says, “really sweet. Thank you.” He’s relieved that the flirty tone has gone from his friend’s voice: it’s one thing in a rowdy rugby stadium, and another in a quaint little café where the only background noise is the chatter of over-sixties.

Only – he’s thought too soon about the flirting. He feels something against his ankle and has to fight not to look under the table to check what it is. Tom’s still gazing out of the window, and he forces himself to match his nonchalant attitude.

He drinks the rest of the cup and pours himself another one, while Tom’s reduced the brownie to a few crumbs on the plate and is starting on the hot chocolate. It’s a good thing their default state is quiet co-existence, otherwise this could be awkward. As it is, Sam’s enjoying the chance to relax. God knows he needs it.

The ankle against his own presses harder for a second, pulling his wandering attention back into the café. “What’s up?” he asks, setting down his cup. In the seconds, minutes, however long he’s been drifting, Tom’s face has tightened. He doesn’t want to catastrophise, but-

“I want to talk to you about something,” Tom says. Jesus Christ, if they were in a relationship, he’d be worried, but right now? Tom could be telling him he’s dropping out, or he’s ill, or Ben’s ill, or any number of things.  
“Go on,” he gets out, throat constricting.

“It’s just,” Tom starts, wrapping his hands around his hot chocolate and staring fixedly at the remnants of the drink, “I was wondering about what you were doing for accommodation next year.” Sam digs his fingers into his thigh. If Tom’s about to ask what he thinks he’s going to, this conversation is about to get really awkward, really fast.

He nods encouragingly at Tom to make him keep talking. Maybe it’s not about that, after all. “The thing is, one of a group of us who’re planning to share a house next year – he’s backed out of it, wants to live with his girlfriend instead.”

Damn. It is about that.

“I was wondering,” he repeats, looking up at Sam, “if you’d maybe like to live with me – us – next year? There’s five of us at the moment, and we’re going to look at some places over the holiday.” The looking-through-the-eyelashes move is absolutely not intentional this time, Sam knows, but it’s making it even harder to tell Tom the truth.

“I’d love to,” he murmurs.  
“But?” Tom asks, face falling.  
“I don’t know what I’m going to be doing next year,” he finishes. He can’t meet Tom’s eyes now; he doesn’t want to see his disappointment. “I might be switching to part-time, and then I’d probably live in Swansea for most of the week for training.”

His voice has fallen to a whisper by the end, and he’s suddenly desperately sad. This fragile thing they’ve been building between them, together, one study date and one outrageous line at a time – it looks like this is the end. If he’s going to be in Swansea four or five days a week, and Tom’s going to be even busier with his academic work – there’s no world in which Sam can imagine their friendship surviving, let alone anything more.

It’s lucky that Tom is more of an optimist than him, then.

“Okay,” he says hoarsely, despite the drink he’s just downed. “Okay. I understand that.” Tom reaches across the table, rests his hand on Sam’s wrist where he’s still clutching at his cup like a lifeline. “This doesn’t change anything for me, though. We have another two terms together like this, and then we can see where we go from there.” His voice shakes, uncertain again but so, so brave. “That is, if you want?”

“Oh, fuck it,” Sam breathes, leaning across the table and catching Tom’s face with his hands. “Can I?” he asks, and he barely has to wait before Tom’s nodding and leaning forwards himself and bringing their lips together in a crushing kiss.

 _That old couple are definitely going to be pissed about this_ , some distant part of his mind reflects.

He ignores the clinking of the crockery as they both move closer together, Tom’s hands coming up to rest on Sam’s shoulders. He tastes of chocolate, both the liquid and pudding kinds, and Sam can’t get enough. He’s trying to show Tom how much he cares, how much he’s grateful for Tom fronting up and saying the quiet part out loud for once.

Tom’s cradling his face now, and they must be making a bit of an exhibition of themselves, but Sam can’t bring himself to care. His only worry is if some diehard Ospreys fan were to notice them – they are in Cardiff, though. It’s not that likely. If all they have to deal with is a few dirty looks from some people who are absolutely National Trust members, he can take it.

“You okay?” Tom asks, pulling back. “Seems like you’re thinking a lot.”  
Sam makes sure to keep their hands linked on the tabletop and to push their feet together more deliberately. “All good things, I promise,” he says earnestly. “Just happy you made a move, you know? If it was up to me, I probably wouldn’t have for ages – if at all.”

“I’ve noticed,” Tom says, smiling wryly. His thumb’s swiping across the back of Sam’s hand in a distracting rhythm. “Who was the one making sugar daddy jokes for months?”  
“Alright, alright,” Sam says. He will _not_ start blushing again. “I don’t know. I thought it could have been just banter.”

Tom frowns. “That’s the sort of thing the guys on your team come up with?”  
“Well, not the older ones,” Sam rushes to clarify. “But the younger guys – yeah, they make a lot of comments that aren’t really gay jokes, but they’re pretty close to it.”

“So I guess they don’t know about you?” Tom asks steadily.  
He shrugs uncomfortably. “I think Lloyd – he’s captain while the internationals are away – might have noticed something’s up, but the rest don’t.” He sighs. “I’m not ashamed or anything. It’s just easier, sometimes, to let them assume.”

“No, no, I get that,” Tom says, rubbing their calves together. “You’re in a bit of a tricky situation there, and I would probably do the same.”  
“I still want to be with you, and date you,” Sam says, pushing through the uncomfortable churning in his stomach. “It might be difficult, what with all my going backwards and forwards to Swansea all the time, but I want to try.”

“We can make it work,” Tom says. He’s smiling more now, eyes crinkling at the corners. “We basically live over the road from each other for starters – that’s got to make it easier.”  
“Speaking of which,” Sam says, “d’you want to – you know – go and hang out in my room for a bit? It’s cold, and we’ve finished our drinks, that’s all.”

“That’s all, is it?” The smirk from earlier is back on Tom’s face, this time tempered with what Sam hopes is genuine excitement. They get up – he studiously ignores the stares of the couple on the next table – and walk back through the park. Cold as it is, Tom’s determined to hold hands, and they clutch at each other as they wander through the avenues of bare, frost-bitten trees.

Maybe he wasn’t expecting to incorporate a relationship into his neat, organised life at uni, but he’s glad Tom is making room for himself anyway. He’s got a feeling that this is going to be special.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Seen as some lovely people in the comments were asking if there was a second part to this - there is now!

The next seven months are just that – special. Sure, towards the end of the year they might be having more library dates than actual dates, but his relationship with Tom is one of the only things getting Sam through the his first-year exams. The season might have technically finished, but the coaches are making them reflect thoroughly on the campaign just gone and already preparing for pre-season.

He’s got a two-year contract with the club sorted, and he’s supposed to be living with Nicky and his fiancée when training resumes in late July. He and Tom have met up a few times, once with Ben and once by themselves. All things considered, he’s living a pretty charmed life.

Then it all goes wrong.

It’s just a standard training drill, on an otherwise unremarkable Wednesday in early August. He lines up to go into the ruck, Alun Wyn already bracing himself over the player on the floor. He ducks down, low to high, and-

There’s a crunch, and he must have blacked out for a second, because he opens his eyes to see the blue, blue sky and a huddle of medics crowded around him. All the usual shouting of a training session has died down, the only sound the drone of a plane high above.

They run him through the concussion protocols and he struggles to focus on the pen they make him follow with his eyes, only because the stinging throb in his shoulder is sending shuddering waves radiating through his body.

 _Tom would say it was the epicentre of the earthquake_ , he thinks woozily as the doctors seem to notice how unnaturally his shoulder is lying. They gently probe the injury and he can’t stop a whine escaping through his teeth.

This was meant to be his season, he thinks sadly as they help him to his feet. He’s switched to a part-time course for this and everything. And now? He could be out for months.

Alun Wyn comes over as he’s hobbling off the pitch. “I’m so sorry,” he says, squeezing at his uninjured arm. “Whatever you need – just ask.”  
“It’s okay,” Sam grits out, forcing a smile in response to his captain’s pleading tone. “These things happen.”

“Text me later, yeah? I want to know what’s going on,” he instructs.  
“Yes, sir,” Sam manages to snark. Then he’s off the pitch and his studs are clicking on the floor back to the changing room.

One of the physios makes him lie down on the examination table and they resume the poking and prodding. After five minutes of Sam holding back grunts of pain, someone twigs that he might want a painkiller or two and they give him a shot of the good stuff, and then he just – drifts.

He surfaces again to Nicky herding him into his car so they can go home. There’s an appointment with a specialist booked for the day after, and then surgery three days later, most likely. Four months, Nicky tells him in a quiet voice. He’s fine to stay with them, but the team might be happy for him to go home, if he’d prefer.

Sam nods, letting himself slump back against the seat. There’s a sling holding his arm in place, immobilising the shoulder, and the painkillers are strong enough to mute the jolting of the car over the Welsh back roads.

Everything’s a bit of a blur after that, both from the pain and the drugs and his rapidly spiralling panic. He’d called his parents and Tom, explained the situation as best he could through the fog of his brain. His mum wants to pick him up after the operation and take him home, but he gets in his excuses quick. There’s no way he could see Tom if he were shut up at home, so he wants to stay in Wales – for the team, obviously.

Then the surgery happens and the wound heals, leaving him with a stiff shoulder, a bright red line near the joint, and far too much time to fill. The physios gave him a schedule of rehab exercises to do, but he has hours more of spare, empty time left in the day, especially when Nicky’s at training and his fiancée’s at work.

He manages to negotiate two rehab sessions a week with the team, Monday afternoon and Tuesday morning, and then calls Tom.

“Do you want to come and stay with me?” Tom offers at once. “It’ll just be us in the house, at least for the first few days.”  
“How did you know that was what I was going to ask?” he says, smiling at the wall opposite.

“Because all you do is complain about how much your shoulder hurts and how much you miss me,” Tom answers. “Look, I’m moving in tomorrow, so any time after that is fine, babe.”  
“Okay. I’ll have to talk to Nicky – no specifics, of course – but it should be good. Thanks, Tommy.”  
“I’m excited to see you again,” Tom says, warmth bleeding through his voice. “It’s been too long.”

“Two weeks, you clingy bastard!” Sam laughs. “But no – I do miss you too.”  
“I’ll buy some of that peanut butter you like,” Tom promises. “If you’re hanging around the house all day, I’ll need to start stockpiling.”  
“At least it’s healthy,” Sam says, pretending to be annoyed. “Better for the body than binging on chocolate.”

“And I’m not a professional athlete, _sweetheart_ , so I don’t care,” Tom fires back good-naturedly. “I need to go and actually finish packing now, but text me when you’ve talked to Nicky, yeah?”  
“Of course. See you soon, babe.”  
“Bye, Sammy.”

Nicky agrees almost immediately – probably glad to be shot of a grumpy teenager hanging around the house for months on end, if he’s honest with himself. He helps Sam pack his suitcase and drives him to the station two days later without bothering to question his stuttered explanation of where he’s going to be staying.

Sam gives him a one-armed hug on the platform, injured arm resting on the handle of his suitcase. “I’ll see you next week,” he says, suddenly choked-up. “Thanks for this.”  
“Don’t worry about it,” Nicky replies, looking like he’s blinking back tears himself. “You stay safe, alright? Don’t take any stick from that Cardiff lot.”

Sam steps back, smiling weakly. He’s going to stay with his boyfriend – why is this so hard? Nicky seems to be struggling with the same emotions, hauling him back in for another hug. “You know that meme,” he says, “the one that’s like, ‘I’ve only had this dog for a day and a half, but if anything happened to him, I would kill everyone in this room and then myself’?”

He nods, wondering where Nicky’s going with this. “Well, that’s me, and you’re the dog. Just be careful, alright?”  
Sam can’t help huffing out a laugh. “I will, mate.”

“Text me when you get there,” Nicky instructs him sternly.  
“Yes, dad.” He rolls his eyes and steps onto the train. _Cardiff, here I come._

The few days in the house alone with Tom is better for his recovery than all the physical therapy the team are making him do. Somehow, Tom had been the only one in the house to wangle a double bed so they both fit nicely, even with Sam having to prop himself up on a pillow so he doesn’t roll over in the night and wake himself up.

It’s an easy domesticity, with nothing much to do. They make breakfast together and go for long walks through Bute Park, where the bare trees of winter have now sprouted leaves and innumerable flowers of every shade have pushed their way up through the earth. In the afternoon, they might do some work (emphasis on the _might_ ) or play games or watch a film, and then the evening is more of the same.

Their routine is all the sweeter for the lack of housemates bumbling around and interrupting the peace. Sam’s never going to complain about spending time with Tom, no matter how he ended up in that situation, whether it’s watching the Olympics for hours on end or getting each other off in the shower without worrying about who might be around to hear them.

Of course, it’s still nice when Tom’s friends start moving in – it’s just different. Sam’s met them all in passing, but getting to know someone properly when you’re a surprise long-term housemate is a whole other kettle of fish.

The other thing that’s different is that they all know that Sam and Tom are together. It’s not a debate or something to be contested: it’s just a fact, and it’s accepted. He’s never been in this kind of environment before, where kissing his boyfriend is met with fond retching, not judgemental stares.

(To be fair – he hasn’t really given the guys on the team the chance to prove themselves, but he’s not sure if he wants to. He’s in his own little bubble away from them five days a week, and it’s all working out so far.)

In fact, he’s so ensconced in the bubble that he doesn’t hesitate to answer a call from a withheld number one lazy afternoon while Tom’s mouthing up his neck. “Hello?” he says, pushing his boyfriend away. Tom sits back on his haunches, cocks his head. _Who is it?_ he mouths.

“G’day, is that Sam Underhill?” The mystery caller has a strong Australian accent, and Sam can’t help the shivers running up the back of his neck. Is it-?  
“Speaking. Who’s there, please?” Tom snorts at his ‘professional’ voice, and Sam tries to kick him.

“Hi, Sam, it’s Eddie Jones. From the RFU.”  
Sam’s mouth drops open. “Oh, wow. Hi. How are you?” _It’s Eddie Jones!!!!_ he mouths to Tom, hoping the excitement comes across. Tom frowns, then pulls out his own phone. Despite dating a rugby player for more than half a year, he still doesn’t know much about the people involved in the sport, to Sam’s eternal exasperation.

“I’m good, thanks,” Eddie answers. Sam can tell the moment Tom realises who it is, because his eyes widen. _Holy shit_ , he mouths, and Sam’s inclined to agree. “I was more wondering how you’re doing, actually. We’ve been looking at you from the England setup for the last season, and you’ve really impressed us. Obviously this injury isn’t ideal, but I’d like to know how you’re getting on.”

Tom’s bouncing slightly on the bed in his excitement, throwing Sam off. “Stop it,” he hisses.  
“What was that?” Eddie asks, confused. “Is someone with you?”

“It’s just, uh,” Sam says, stalling for time. If he’s serious about Tom, which he is, and about his potential England career, which he very much is, then it might be easier to get it out of the way now. Eddie’s chasing him, after all, and Sam knows he’s a good prospect for the future. If this goes wrong – well, he can always qualify for Wales on residency.

“Sam?” Eddie prompts.  
“Ah, yes,” he says, reaching out and squeezing Tom’s hand. “My boyfriend was just excited about you calling and I was telling him to calm down, that’s all.”

“Oh, really?” Eddie says, sounding intrigued. “What’s his name?”  
“Tom,” Sam says, wondering if the pain meds have suddenly made a reappearance in his system. “He’s a student at Cardiff too.”

“Well, pass on my regards,” Eddie says genially. _Eddie says hi_ , Sam mouths at his boyfriend, laughter bubbling up in his throat at the absurdity of it all. It’s not supposed to be that easy, surely? Tom looks just as bewildered.  
“He says hi back,” Sam murmurs.  
“Good, good,” Eddie says. “Now, as to the trajectory for your recovery…”

When Eddie hangs up ten minutes later, Sam can’t stop himself from rolling over and burying his head in the pillows. “What did he say, babe?” Tom asks, resting a hand on his back.  
“If I play well after Christmas – he wants me for the Argentina tour next year, fuck.” He’s all mixed up inside, still amazed by his own bravery and Eddie’s relaxed response and the England shirt being dangled in front of him.

“Oh my God, Sammy,” Tom says, giving him a hug that’s basically him lying on top of Sam’s back. “That’s incredible! Shit, _England_. That’s massive.”

Sam twists under him so he can clutch Tom to his chest. It’s not anything concrete yet, more of a promise than anything else, but still – _England._ “I love you,” he says wetly, tears welling up out of nowhere. “So much, Tom, so much.”

Tom pulls him into a messy kiss, both of them crying and brimming with excitement. “I love you too, baby,” he gets out between kisses. “You’re the best. I’m so proud of you.” Sam has to hide his face in Tom’s neck for a moment. It’s all too much; his heart can’t take it, let alone his head.

“Wait until the boys hear about this,” Tom says, ruffling at his hair. “They’re going to be so happy too.”  
Sam can’t stop his grin. “Well, all of them except Rhys. We all know he wants free tickets to Wales games.”  
“Play well enough and you’ll be in the Six Nations soon,” Tom says stubbornly. “Then we can all come and watch.”

“I might want to bring my family first – if it happens,” Sam says. Tom droops in his arms, and he rushes to correct himself. “That’s you as well, you numpty. These guys are great, but my mum will kill me if I invite a load of boys from uni before her and my dad.”

“Just the one boy from uni, then,” Tom says, seemingly appeased and nuzzling at Sam’s cheek.  
“Yeah,” he says fondly. “I’ll ring them about Eddie, and then slide you into the conversation as well. They can’t be too mad if I get them excited about England first.”

“Do you want me here for it?” Tom asks. He’s tracing the scar from the shoulder surgery as he looks seriously at his boyfriend. “I can piss off and do something else for a bit, if you’d prefer that.”  
Sam catches his hand and stills it. “I reckon you’re my good luck charm, baby. Of course you can stay.”

He allows himself a few minutes for his heart rate to steady and the adrenaline to subside before he calls his mum. It’s nearly time for dinner, so she’s probably free. He can picture her at the other end of the phone, standing in the kitchen and watching the food cook. Hopefully she’ll take it well, but if not – he’s got Tom, currently snuggled up under his free arm like an overgrown dog, and an independent source of income.

It surprises her at first, like it did him, but once he tells her the story of how they met and Tom weaselled his way into his organised little life, they both realise that it shouldn’t have been a surprise at all.

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed another instalment of AO3 user harlequin87 single-handedly being the captain, first mate, and cabin boy of HMS Curry/Underhill.
> 
> Let me know what you thought in the comments!


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